


And Then They Stopped

by superchester



Series: And So It Goes [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape, Deaf!Dean, Gen, non-graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superchester/pseuds/superchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Sam and John move from town to town wherever their father has a job. It is in one such town that something happens, and then they stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then They Stopped

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'ed I would like a beta though, so if anyone is interested, please let me know!

Dean had spent the last 12 years in the passenger seat of the Impala moving from place to place with his Dad and his brother and the nightmares that followed them.

Dean had spent the last 12 years knowing exactly what it feels like to hold your mom while she dies.

(The last sound Dean has heard in the last 12 years is the gunshot that killed her and the sound of baby Sammy screaming in his cradle but that’s something Dean won’t acknowledge remembering.)

He’d learned quick that the less time you spend some place, the less time there is for assholes to pick on the dumb deaf kid.

(Although the bruise he’s sporting on his forehead and his scabbed split lip say that the measly three months they had lived in Saginaw, Michigan had been three months too many.)

Regardless, Dean’s happy they left. Dad had some sort of handy man job lined up at the motel they’re staying in, Sam had bitched and moaned and cried over missing his soccer tournament, but Dean doesn’t much mind moving around a lot.

The drive to their new home is long, but comforting to Dean. His world, while always silent, is sometimes too silent, so he can appreciate life more when he’s moving. The vibrating of the Impala around him, the rush of wind through the open windows, and the scenery they’re speeding passed. Those are all sounds to Dean now. The sensations break the ever-pressing monotony of silence in his head, make him feel less like a dumb, deaf kid, and more like any other human being.

The same, however, cannot be said for Sam, who is squirming around in the back seat trying to read the book dad bought him as a consolation, ‘sorry, but we’re moving’ gift.

Dean watches as Dad’s mouth moves, and then feels more than sees Sam’s reply because his little brother is pressed up against the back of the front seat, breath fanning across Dean’s neck as he speaks.

He hates when they do this. Argue. Usually when Sam and Dad talk they’ll sign at the same time so that Dean doesn’t feel like he’s left out. They usually sign…except when they’re arguing.

Dad’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, and Dean can tell by the way Sam is clutching seat behind him that their argument is getting more heated. He tries to read Sam’s lips in the rearview mirror, but he’s never been able to read lips, no matter how many times he’s tried.

Gritting his teeth, Dean pats Dad’s arm, trying to catch his attention, but Dad waves him off, mouth still running. Now Sam’s hands are flying around, gesturing wildly. Dean hits the dashboard with his hands, pulling at his seat belt to turn in his seat, “ _What’s wrong?”_ he signs, his movements jerky and stilted equal parts because his hands are still sore from pummeling the kid who’d provoked him and because he’s really freaking frustrated.

This time Sam waves him off, and Dean can’t help the tiny pricks in the corners of his eyes. He hates being ignored. He hates when they don’t listen to him. And he _hates_ when they argue.

Dean pinches the skin of Sam’s shoulder through his t-shirt with one hand, signing with the other, “ _Stop fighting, stop fighting, damn it stop!_ ” He’s breathing hard, like he ran a marathon, and he works hard to calm himself. He gets…worked up. Sometimes. Most times. Almost all the time. When no one’s listening to him.

The doctors say they’re panic attacks. That being deaf overwhelms him when he feels like he can’t be heard. They say it’s because he was four when he became hearing impaired, not able to talk well enough to remember how to say words without hearing them. He can read fine, could probably learn to talk again if he really wanted to, but Dean doesn’t like the idea of opening his mouth without being able to hear the sounds that come out.

For some reason the idea that his Dad or Sammy won’t hear him if he’s in trouble terrifies him. His brain just flips a switch and Dean freaks the hell out.

Dean pushes himself back in his seat, glaring out the window. Sam and Dad have stopped fighting now, but Dean’s too busy trying to discretely wipe away the few tears that spilled down his cheeks.

Dad’s hand slides across his shoulder to cup his neck, massaging lightly.

Dean’s eyes well with tears again, and he hates himself for each one that spills over. He feels weak, and vulnerable, and raw all over.

Sam’s scrawny arms reach around his shoulders in a strange, over the seat hug. He can feel Sam’s too long hair brushing against his cheek as his brother presses their temples together.

“ _Sorry._ ” Sam signs, but Dean resolutely stares out the window until both Sam and Dad get off of him.

He flicks away another wayward tear, and hates his life (and himself) a little more.

*

Sometimes when Dean’s asleep, he dreams of _sound_. Not real, proper sound. Just motion. Sensations. The only sound he knows is a gun going off right by his ear, Sammy screaming, and Mom’s soft, sniffling last breaths.

He dreams of that day sometimes. Less now than when he was younger. A small disgusting part of himself relishes the real sounds he hears in the memory, but the events surrounding the sound leave him in a depression worse than usual each time he has to relive them.

Dad pulls over in the parking lot of a grungy motel in Duluth, Minnesota, their new home for the next few months, and Dean jolts awake in his seat.

“ _Wake Sammy, I’m going to get our room._ ” Dad signs, opening his door and exiting the car. Dean reaches into the back seat and shakes Sam awake, “ _We’re here,_ ” he signs, once Sam’s eyes are open. “ _Get your shit._ ”

Dean opens his door, yawning and stretching as he stands. They’re so far from civilization here there are millions of stars visible and twinkling in the night sky above him. He likes when they stay in places like this. Far enough away from town that Dean can explore and be alone without having to worry about running into humanity.

There’s a difference between peacefulness and silence. And out here, that’s what Dean feels, peaceful.

He and Sam gather their duffle bags from the trunk, trudging across the dark parking lot to the lobby of the motel. It’s not bad as far as motels go. At least the rooms are inside instead of right on the parking lot.

Dad finishes talking to the manager just as they enter, and he signs and says “ _102_ ” grabbing his duffle from Dean’s shoulder, putting a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades as he leads them to their room.

Another day, another motel, same set up, different name. Dean finds the monotony comforting, but he can tell by the way Sam’s shoulders slump, and his face dons a put out look that his brother isn’t as content.

The closer his brother gets to being a teenager, the surlier he is. The kid used to be happy. Used to consider moving as a chance to explore new places with Dean. That had all changed when he’d turned 12, and Dean fears the hormone fueled arguments that will come in his teenage years.

Dean drops his shit on the bed nearest the bathroom, moving to zip open his bag to grab his toothbrush and pajamas, when Dad taps his fingers.

He looks up expectantly, waiting for the usual “ _I’m sorry for ignoring you. I love you._ ” But it doesn’t come. Instead Dad signs that he’s ‘going out’, which means he’s going to the bar Dean saw an exit for on the way here.

Dad must see Dean’s disappointment on his face because he pulls Dean into a hug and there’s the, “ _I love you_.” Dean knew would come. He signs that he loves his Dad too, and bites back the part of him that wants to sign ‘so why isn’t it enough for you?’ and pulls out of his father’s embrace.

He watches a similar exchange with Dad and Sam, before Dad leaves them with a $20.00 and a sick feeling in their stomachs.

*

Sam orders them a pizza with a liter of water and they eat on Dean’s bed, mostly quiet except when Sam had tried to talk about Dad’s drinking habits.

“ _Can I sleep in the bed with you?_ ” asked Sammy. He wasn’t looking at Dean, but Dean could see that his ears were bright red were they peaked through his mop of brown hair. Dean chuffs Sam’s chin to make him look up, he frowned at the watery eyed, wobbly lipped expression Sam had on.

Would there be no peace? Dean sighed, “ _Fine. What’s wrong with you?_ ”

Sam shrugged, biting his lip.

Dean poked his brother’s shoulder, _“Don’t give me that, man. What is it?_ ”

Sometimes Dean wonders if his brother and dad would talk to him more if he could _hear_ them.

Sam picks at a thread in the bed spread, and Dean tries to wait patiently for his brother to speak.

“ _I’m just tired, I guess._ ” Sam shrugs again, “ _I hate when we move. Why can’t we just buy a house and live in it forever like normal people?_ ”

Of course. This again. Sam’s probably worked up about it because of his unfinished argument with Dad in the car. “ _Look, Sam-_ ” he begins, then stops because Sam grips his hands.

“ _Don’t,_ ” Sam signs, “ _I already know. Dad’s doing his best, we go where the job goes, and I get it. I just don’t like it. And I miss Dad, and I want him to stop drinking and I want you to stop being sad, why can’t we all just be a family? A normal, happy family?_ ”

Sam’s eyes are tinged red, but even though he looks upset, he isn’t crying. Good. Dean thinks savagely. If the little twerp cried Dean would feel compelled to comfort him.

“ _Life sucks, Sam. Deal with it._ ” Dean slides off the bed, pushing the empty pizza box to the floor and grabbing his tooth brush. He closes the bathroom door behind him with a slam that he can’t hear.

Life sucks. Deal with it.

*

It’s 4:00AM and Dad’s still not back yet. Sam’s asleep beside him, knobby knees pushed into Dean’s back. Dean is practically buzzing in his skin. He’s worried about Dad, he’s sick of this bullshit routine and Dad’s fucking drinking, and he’s _really fucking done with sharing a bed with Sam and his mother fucking octopus limbs._

Practically vibrating with irritation Dean shoves away from Sam and the motel bed. He can’t do this. He can’t sit here. He can’t live in another motel for three months. He can’t go to a new school and go through the same crap he’s been through at the last 3 new schools. And he most certainly can’t sit through another one of Dad’s alcohol binges. He just fucking refuses.

He pulls his discarded jeans roughly over his legs, shoving his sock-less feet into his boots. He stomps out the door, slamming it behind him because he just. fucking. refuses.

It doesn’t take long to find the bar his dad skulked off too. The Impala was still in the lot at the motel, so Dean only had to ask the hotel manager where the nearest watering hole was, walk for thirty minutes, and here he is.

(His feet are nearly rubbed raw in his boots too, but that’s a side-effect of his bad mood and his subsequent decision making that he chooses to ignore.)

From the entrance Dean can see his dad in the corner, at the bar, drinking like a fish, and all at once, Dean deflates. His dad looks just… miserable.

The pulsing anger that lead Dean to leave Sammy alone in their crappy motel to come here to this dingy, darkened, biker and nomad filled bar slips away just as quickly as it came.

What is he even doing here?

He isn’t even completely sure what he planned to say to Dad when he got here anyway. Scream at him? He can’t fucking talk.

Dean’s standing in the entrance of this stupid ducking place and he can’t even _hear_ the people brushing passed him to get in and out of the doorway.

Feet hurting and shoulders slumped, Dean turns around. He’s got a long walk to the motel.

Ten minutes in Dean is acutely aware of how cold it is.

Twenty minutes in Dean is certain he has at least three blisters on each foot.

In the parking lot of the motel Dean almost sighs with relief. Almost. Before he has a chance, someone slams into him from behind.

-

Dean blacked out when his head hit the concrete for maybe twenty seconds, but it’s enough time for the guy on top of him to get a handful of his shirt and tug him into the darkened alley way between the motel and the closed convenience store beside.

The man is big. Bigger than Dean. And his mouth moves against Dean’s ear like he’s whispering something filthy as one hand moves from where he’s pinned Dean’s hands to the wall above him to trail down his shirt.

The craggy bricks of the motel building scrape the back of his hands as he writhes and tries to pull free, he doesn’t care. He pulls harder.

Dean’s mouth is wide open, pulled open in some gross imitation of a scream. Dean doesn’t even know if he _can_ scream, but he can feel vibrations in his throat and please, please let there be sound coming out.

The guy’s face pulls away from Dean’s neck, where he’s been biting and sucking and making Dean sick to his stomach. It’s too dark for Dean to really see anything other than the outline of a jaw covered in stubble and twin eyes with pupils blown so wide Dean isn’t sure the guy even has irises.

Dean tries to scream again. Tries forming words. Tries struggling. Tries saying ‘help’. He doesn’t know if any sound is coming out, but the guy, who is sliding his disgusting, meaty hand up Dean’s shirt is laughing in his face.

Dean kicks, with all his might and gets the guy in the shin. The grip around his wrists loosen momentarily, but it’s enough for Dean to yank _hard_ and pull free. Dad’s self-defense training and Dean’s personal experience in defending himself both fly out the window.

There’s panic. And fear. It’s nearly debilitating how terrified he is, but Dean forces his legs to work and his lungs to fill with air as he runs as fast as he fucking can to the motel lobby hoping, _praying_ , the manager is still behind the counter.

Dean slams into the door before he manages to pull it open, too scared to look behind him to see if the guy followed him, his heart is thumping furiously in his chest. He nearly sags in relief when he sees that the manager, a balding man with glasses that must have come from the 70s is there, behind the counter, flipping through a magazine, and that’s exactly when he realizes that this guy probably can’t understand sign language.

Dean rushes to him anyway, and, for lack of any other ideas or logical thoughts in his brain, he grabs the guy by the front of the shirt and shakes, pointing towards the door frantically.

“Hey man get your hands off me!” shouts the manager, but Dean doesn’t, _can’t_ let go. He points more, finally looking towards the door, the man isn’t there, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t waiting creepily outside for Dean to be stupid enough to go out there.

Dean looks back to the manager, patting his mouth again. He signs _‘can’t talk can’t talk can’t talk’_ over and over with trembling hands hoping the guy will get his point.

He does, thank fuck.

The guy’s mouth moves like he’s talking, and Dean nearly cries, he’s never felt like his inability to hear has been more of a burden.

He pats his ears now and shakes his head, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks.

The guy behind the counter frowns and nods, pulling Dean’s hands off his shirt. He has to uncurl Dean’s fingers to do it, but he holds Dean’s wrist when he sees the bruises and taps them, making eye contact with Dean.

At a loss for how else to communicate Dean nods, pointing at the door again. He’s shaking, crying, and the motel manager pulls him around the counter and makes him sit in the rolling chair behind it. The manager grabs a pen and paper from the counter and writes, ‘ _wait here I’ll lock the door_ ’ Dean nods feverishly.

Mentally, Dean tries to regroup himself, tries to calm his heart and his breathing. He can practically feel himself hyperventilating, black spots popping in and out of his vision. He’s still crying, though it’s more tears running unchecked than sobbing. It’s like he can’t stop it.

The manager comes back, crouches in front of Dean, he takes the pen and pad of paper and writes, _‘Door locked. Hospital?’_

Dean shakes his head. He grabs the pen from the manager and jerkily prints, ‘ _not hurt. Call my dad._ ’

The manager nods, and Dean writes Dad’s number and hopes like hell his father isn’t already drunk off his ass.

He writes ‘ _My brother_ ’, then hands the paper to the guy, wrapping his arms around himself. He can’t stop shaking.

The manager is on the phone, one hand on Dean’s shoulder, probably trying to be comforting, but it only serves to put Dean further on edge.

He practically vibrates out of his seat, away from the guy’s hand.

The manager gives him a sympathetic look, writes on the paper, ‘ _I rang your brother, he’s coming. Your dad is on his way too_ ’

Dean nods, wringing his hands together. He can feel the spit on his neck cooling, and his stomach churns. He shuts his eyes tightly, retreating into a corner until his back hits the wall, he slides to the floor and puts his head between his knees.

He feels itchy all over, he wants to scrape his skin off, scrape away how dirty he feels, how disgusting he is. Dean wraps his arms around his knees, head still buried between them, rocks back and forth.

-

Dean jumps when rough hands land on his shoulders, rubbing gently before cupping his face. Dad’s eyes are red-rimmed and his face is drawn. Dean can’t help it, he shoves his way into his dad’s arms, clutching his shirt tightly in his hands, and taking deep, shuddering breaths.

Dad holds him there for a moment, rubbing Dean’s back and kissing the top of his head while Dean cries and shakes and sags in relief.

He feels like he can finally breathe. Like the constriction of fear around his chest has loosened, if only a bit.

Dad pulls back, holding Dean up by the shoulders. “ _What happened?_ ” he signs, and how is Dean meant to answer that?

Suddenly Dean is very aware of the motel manager standing behind Dad, Sam standing beside him looking as tired and worn as Dad does.

“ _Can we go home? Please_.” Dean signs, shaking his head when Dad makes a face like he’s about to argue. “ _Please_?” he signs again.

Dad’s shoulders slump, but he nods, rising from the crouch he’d been kneeling in to be at Dean’s level. He pulls Dean up by the wrist and tucks him under his arm, squeezing lightly. Sam glues himself to Dean’s other side, grabbing his sleeve. He shakes Dean’s arm a little, smiling when Dean looks at him.

Dean looks away.

-

Eventually he does tell Dad what happened, a brief, abbreviated version that only came out after Dad begged and pleaded.

They’re packed into the car and out of town the next day.

-

Dean sleeps most of the way, head pillowed on Sam’s lap in the back seat. He drifts in and out, lulled back to sleep by the vibrations of the car and Sam’s still chubby, 12-year-old fingers playing with his hair and making swirly patterns on the side of his face.

Dean’s got a bandage on his forehead over the bruise he’d gotten when his almost-rapist pushed him onto the asphalt.

(There are scratches on the back of his hands too, and when Dad had cleaned them in the bathroom at the motel he’d looked so murderously angry that even Dean had been scared for a moment.)

He sits up when he feels the car roll to a stop. He blinks once. Twice. They’re at Uncle Bobby’s he realizes. Why?

He taps Dad’s shoulder, “ _Why are we here?_ ”

“ _Figured we owed the old coot a visit, we were out this way anyway. Get out of the car, bud._ ” Dad gives him a look a look that is probably meant to be reassuring but only serves to weird Dean out.

Dean turns to Sam, frowning, but Sam shrugs. “ _Don’t look at me_.”

Shaking his head, Dean gets out of the car, stretching with his arms over his head. It’s not that he minds going to Uncle Bobby’s, as a matter of fact he loves coming here. He’s just wondering why there here now, and if it has anything to do with what happened yesterday.

Bobby comes out of the house and stands on the porch as Dean, Sam and Dad trudge through the scrapyard toward him.

He looks like he’s smiling but trying to hide it. Dean doesn’t bother hiding his own smile, and Sam, shameless child that he is, full on runs towards Bobby, flinging himself into open arms.

Sam’s still small enough to do that, Dean supposes. Still short with a decent amount of stubborn baby fat. He’ll probably grow into it eventually and leave Dean lagging behind.

“ _Come here, boy_.” Bobby signs holding out and arm to give Dean a hug. Dean accepts, gingerly. He’s got bruises on his back from being shoved into a wall, and he ain’t all that fond of being touched by anyone right now.

“ _How you doing, kid?_ ” asks Bobby when they part. Dean shrugs, gives and lifts one side of his mouth in a poor attempt at a smile. Bobby grips his shoulder and pulls him and Sam inside the house.

-

They don’t talk about it. Not just ‘the incident’, but also settling down in Sioux Falls.

They live with Bobby for a while, Dad splits his time between working in the scrapyard and repairing people’s broken shit in town. Eventually he moved on to working a full time repairman.

They bought a house two years in. An ugly, ramshackle thing he, Dad, and Sam fixed up and put together themselves. It’s small, but it’s got a room for him and Sam, one for Dad, a decent sized kitchen and living room and fucking front porch. Not even Sam has any complaints about it.

After their first summer in Sioux Falls, still living with Bobby, Dad convinced Dean to go back to school, which Dean did with bad grace.

There was one guy who’d tried to mess around with Dean by shoving into lockers from behind and ripping his bag off his shoulders but Bobby had showed up to school one day to pick him up and seen the kid pushing Dean against a wall.

(The kid hadn’t touched Dean since.)

The first year Dean had nightmares with increasing frequency, Sam usually woke him, “ _You were screaming_ ,” he’d sign, eyes round with worry.

Bobby made Dad take him to a counselor in town.

Her name was Pamela, she prescribes him anti-anxiety medications and listens to him whine, and later, after their session had gone from twice a week, to once a week, and then dwindled to monthly check-ins, Dean walked in on Dad kissing Pamela on the couch in their living room.

Dean thought he might need more counseling after seeing that.

He never considered that he might be happy living here, in Sioux Falls, with Bobby, their house, Pamela, and Dad and Sammy, but he is, and they are.

And when Dean gets his acceptance letter to a college in Boston, Dad looks so proud and sad and happy that Dean thinks he might explode.

It’s when he’s packing his bags, Sam sitting on his bed watching him, that Dean realizes that he’s sort of okay. No. Not just okay. He’s…good. For the first time in 14 years, Dean feels good.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray in the fandom as a writer, I hope I did the character justice. Please let me know if there's something you'd like to see in this verse.


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